


something more tender still than friendship

by fengirl88



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: F/F, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Unexpected desires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 14:36:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13192167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: Lady Pole's arrival in Venice changes the friendship between Mrs Strange and Flora Greysteel.





	1. Part One: Flora

**Author's Note:**

> written as a fill for [this prompt](https://jsmn-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1273.html?thread=981497) on the kinkmeme:
> 
> "Arabella Strange/Flora Greysteel
> 
> You know, Italy, the sun, the light, the joy of being back, drinking tea..."
> 
> My thanks to Owl_by_Night for her encouragement and beta wisdom.

She can wear Flora's dresses, of course she can. That was the whole point of Jonathan taking Flora shopping, that she was the right size to model for his wife. And now Mrs Strange has come tumbling out of a mirror with nothing but the clothes on her back, Flora knows what she has to do.

Tea first, and a nap in the room that should have been Aunt Greysteel's. Her father's habit of taking apartments too large for their needs is a blessing in this case. When their visitor has rested, Flora lays the muslins out on the bed in her own room for her to choose. The colours are wrong for her, but Flora has nothing in the shades Jonathan admired. She had wanted to go back to the stall and purchase another dress like the one that had made him look so happy when she held it against her. But that look was not for her, and she could not square it with her conscience to pretend it ever would be.

Once she would have followed him into darkness, into any danger, without a second thought: as a friend, and as something more. When he told her his wife was alive, she put that dream away with her copy of Lord Byron's poems, and determined to be as good a friend as she could to Mrs Strange if he should ever succeed in freeing her.

She is very beautiful, even in a gown of Flora's that does not exactly suit her. She says little at first; it seems as if her ordeal or the shock of returning to the world has doited her, as Flora's granny would have said. But after a day or two she looks so longingly at Flora's sketching-kit that Flora presses it on her as a gift, and her eyes light up.

They quickly learn that it is useless to attempt to talk to her when she is drawing. Flora is not surprised, when she sees the sketches that result. The house in Shropshire is as familiar to her from those vivid drawings as if she had been born there; she feels she could stretch out her hand and take down a book from the shelves of Jonathan's library, or pluck a flower from the garden.

A letter comes from England, announcing the imminent arrival of Lady Pole to join her friend. Arabella - they are Arabella and Flora to each other by now - is excited, yet seems also troubled by the news.

“Forgive me,” she says to Flora, after an evening when she has been more than usually distraite. “I have not seen my friend since -”

Arabella does not finish her sentence. She is silent for a long time, and then she falls to sketching again. The scene she draws makes Flora shiver, even sitting by the fire. There is a bluish quality to the light in it, as if reflected from snow. It glitters on the robes and jewels of the dancers, and on the hair of the man with hands like claws who stands by the tree in the centre of the courtyard, watching the couples whirl around him. He controls the scene, though Flora would be hard pressed to say how she knows it, since she cannot see his face.

“What is this place?” she asks, though she thinks she knows the answer.

“Lost-hope,” says Arabella. 

She adds half a dozen lines to her sketch, and two figures Flora had not seen before spring into life, making her catch her breath. One of them is so plainly Jonathan as she remembers him, unshaven and wild, yet with such sweetness in his expression that she can hardly bear to look at him. The other is Arabella herself, but so transformed that she might as well be a fairy princess. The glitter of that cold world is on her like an enchantment. No, not like an enchantment: it is one. Again, Flora knows this, without knowing how. Is this how it ended between them?

She has learned not to ask useless questions, especially when to do so would clearly cause pain. Lady Pole's arrival seems to have prompted this memory, or at least to have spurred Arabella on to make a picture of it. Flora wonders what manner of woman she is, and what place her coming will leave for her in Arabella's affections. For once, it is not until she is on the point of losing it that she understands how precious a friendship has become. 

 

*~*~*

 

The day following Lady Pole’s letter seems much the same as any other, and yet there is a change in their routine. For the first time, Arabella asks Flora to show her where Jonathan lived. It is perhaps a little odd that she has never asked this before, but Flora does not show surprise. She watches Arabella disappear into the shadows, and hopes that the rumours of a curse on the place are mistaken. It was hard enough to lose Jonathan to the Darkness; she does not think she could bear to lose Arabella to it as well.

But Flora does not believe in brooding on fantastical sorrows. As Aunt Greysteel would have said, she is too practical a girl. She takes her notebook from her reticule and passes the time in sketching a curious piece of lichen on the wall, a feathered curve like a raven’s wing.

Arabella does not look like a woman under a curse when she emerges, though she is perhaps a thought paler than before, and there are traces of tears on her cheeks. Her manner is so calm and contained that Flora does not like to call attention to these signs of emotion. Instead, she bears Arabella off to the pastrycook’s, and plies her with their favourite small biscuits, flavoured with pistachio and rose water, and a glass of sweet wine.

“The wine tastes better in the sun,” Arabella says, smiling now. “Everything does.”

She is a little quieter than usual that evening, and sketches something she does not show Flora. When they wish each other goodnight, she kisses Flora’s cheek, a thing she has never done before. It is a light kiss, and a fleeting one, but the feel of it keeps Flora awake late into the night, and she hears the church bell toll three before sleep finally overtakes her.

*~*~*

Flora is a sound sleeper, by habit. It is true that she had some wakeful nights in the last days of Jonathan Strange’s sojourn in Venice, and after his disappearance, but she had not looked to do so again. Lady Pole’s visit overturns her expectations, in this way as in so many others.

She had at first assumed that her ladyship would wish to take apartments of her own in Venice, and that Arabella would join her. Flora had reasoned forcibly with herself about her own sentiments on this impending separation, and was determined to bear it with stoicism, if not with cheerfulness. Lady Pole, however, appeared to have no such plan, and the Greysteels, very much to their surprise (and Flora’s no little dismay) found themselves playing host once more. 

“It is an awkward business, Flora,” her father says, when her ladyship’s second letter arrives. “The apartment is too small, and I dare say it is not at all what Lady Pole has been used to. But you will contrive something, I am sure.”

Flora feels, not for the first time, that to be reputed a good manager is not always an advantage. There is much to do, and not enough time in which to do it; and no amount of preparation can alter the fact that the apartment is indeed too small to accommodate another guest. Her ladyship cannot be expected to share a room, much less a bed. Flora accordingly offers to give up part of hers to Arabella, who accepts as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Perhaps it is, to her; but Flora has not shared a bed since she was a small child, spending Christmas with her cousins in ____shire. Arabella is not a restless sleeper, nor does she snore, and yet Flora finds she cannot sleep so easily as she would when alone. She is acutely aware of that warm and quiet presence by her side, of each minute change in the rhythm of Arabella’s breathing. She hardly dares to move in case she touches Arabella by accident, though what possible harm could there be in it if she did?

*~*~*

Lady Pole does not like it when Flora and Arabella talk about magic. She snaps and hisses, or gets up and walks about the room in evident agitation. After the second time this happens, it is clear that no talk of magic can be had in her presence. 

Flora should not find this as distressing as she does. It is not as if she and Arabella talked of nothing else before Lady Pole's arrival, after all. Yet there was a particular comfort in knowing that Arabella enjoyed those conversations, and that she, like Flora, felt closer to Jonathan when talking of the subject that had so preoccupied him.

When Flora first began to study magic, there was a thrill in sharing her newfound knowledge with Jonathan and learning from him. It was different with Arabella, who had not studied magic in the same way, though she had evidently benefited from reading Jonathan's thoughts on the subject. Sometimes she would express surprize at the extent of Flora’s knowledge, and Flora would glow with pride. Sometimes, too, Arabella would smile at her as if Flora's passion for the subject reminded her of Jonathan's. Flora would not have wanted that if remembering made Arabella sad, but it did not appear to do so.

And now Flora has been deprived of this pleasure by Lady Pole’s arrival, as well as of her rest and quiet. It would be possible to talk of magic once she and Arabella retire for the night to the room and the bed they now share, but somehow they do not. Flora feels the loss of those easy conversations most grievously, though she does not complain of it. She has too strong a notion of what is due to a guest. No doubt there are other topics of conversation that Arabella prefers with Lady Pole, though Flora would be hard put to it to say what they are. 

She scolds herself for being jealous, but to no avail. She wishes Lady Pole had never come to Venice. She would be heartily glad of her ladyship's departure, except that she fears Arabella would return to England with her, and then who knows how long it might be before they meet again?

Her father notices the dark shadows under her eyes, and asks rather sharply if she is quite well. She half expects him to prescribe her a sleeping draught, though he is wary of the quality of Venetian drugs. She does her best to reassure him that there is nothing amiss, that it is only the heat that prevents her from sleeping well. It is plain that he does not believe her, but he refrains from pressing her further, and for that she must be grateful.

Meanwhile, her broken nights continue. She knows she should not sit up so late with Arabella, but it is the only time when they are free of Lady Pole. And besides, she has begun to dread the hours of wakefulness with Arabella lying by her side.


	2. Part Two: Arabella

It was not until Lady Pole’s visit that Arabella became aware how familiar and comfortable she had grown with the Greysteels over the past months. There was some awkwardness at first, naturally, in finding herself precipitated without warning into a household of strangers, however amiable and well disposed. But Flora has been so kind and companionable, and Doctor Greysteel so insistent that she must not think of leaving them, that her awkward feelings lessened insensibly until they were gone altogether. 

The Greysteels’ friendship was a comfort at a time when comfort was sorely needed, for a grief unlike any she has known before. Mourning for a death has its times and seasons, and although it never completely ends, it hurts less as the years pass: she knows this, after the death of both her parents. Mourning for an absence that might as well be a death, but is not one, is something she still does not know how to do. 

Being a widow would be simpler in some ways. There are rituals, signs that the world respects. A mourning ring on her finger; a locket with her husband’s hair in it. Black gowns instead of coloured ones. The conventions to signal that she is in pain for the loss of someone she loved, that she needs time.

Being a widow would mean that other loves are possible, in time, though she cannot imagine wanting to marry again. Jonathan is her husband, and always will be. Her equivocal situation now puts any form of intimacy with gentlemen out of the question, even were she so minded. 

She has read enough to know that consolation with one's own sex is a possibility, for some women. Once she thought Emma might want something of that kind from her, but she knows now that she was mistaken. The damage of all those years in Lost-hope was too great; there will always be something broken and angry in her that refuses intimacy. How could it be otherwise? 

Arabella can scarcely imagine the horror of her friend's life in those years, or how any woman could recover herself after such prolonged suffering. The enchantment she was under during her own captivity in Faerie kept her from being aware of her own wretchedness until the spell was broken. Then indeed she knew it, for one blinding instant that still makes her sick at heart to recall. The next moment, everything was swallowed up in the pain of parting from Jonathan before they had had a chance to be reunited.

If she knew for certain that she would never see him again, there would be a clarity in her grief that is lacking now. To think of him as alive somewhere yet cut off from her is harder than if she had nothing left to hope for. At her worst, she can wish herself back in Lost-hope, spellbound and ignorant of her real condition.

She still has not told Flora of her last encounter with Jonathan. She is not sure why not. Flora understands, better than anyone, what Arabella feels. So much so that Arabella sometimes wonders what Flora's own feelings for Jonathan were; but it would be a poor return for Flora's kindness to press her about that. Whatever their relation was, friendship or something warmer, Flora has her own loss to bear, and her tenderness is a comfort.

They walk together through the streets and piazzas, and visit the churches to admire the paintings of Veronese. Flora has a particular fondness for his habit of including what appears to be the identical brown dog in every scene, regardless of the painting's subject. They sit at the pastrycook’s, eating little cakes scented with rose- or orange-flower water and drinking sweet wine, golden as honey. Doctor Greysteel says that Italy is the best place to recover her strength after the ordeal she has been through, and Arabella does not demur.

If any thing could add to her comfort in Venice, she had thought when Lady Pole’s letter came, it would surely be Emma’s presence. In London and in Lost-hope, the Fairy’s malign influence had prevented them from enjoying the pleasure of each other’s company to the full; now there would be time for uninterrupted conversation, with no enchantment to interfere with Emma’s speech or Arabella’s memory. She looked forward to introducing her friend to the Greysteels, and felt sure that Emma would benefit from their cheerful and agreeable society.

Emma’s arrival has made a difference, certainly; but not, Arabella realizes with dismay, the difference she had hoped for. Flora welcomes their new guest politely, but not with the same warmth she showed to Arabella from the first. She appears constrained in Emma’s presence, and even when she and Arabella are alone at night there is an air of reserve about her that was not there before. There are dark shadows under her eyes; Arabella thinks she is sleeping badly. 

Once, Arabella would simply have asked, as she used to do of Jonathan, “What is it that troubles you, my love?” She does not know why she hesitates to do so now.

So much of their former conversation is impossible these days. It is difficult to talk of magic in Emma’s presence when she dislikes it so much. Arabella is surprised by how much she misses Flora’s enthusiastic disquisitions on the history of magic. Her eagerness when talking learnedly of the different spells of Aureate and Argentine magicians reminds Arabella of Jonathan’s. 

It is difficult to speak of Jonathan now, too. Emma knows she should pity Arabella for her loss, but she cannot enter into her feelings any more than Arabella can enter into hers. For Emma, there is a fierce satisfaction in Norrell's imprisonment in the Darkness, which must seem richly deserved after what he did to her: bargaining her life away for his own power, having her locked up as a madwoman to save his miserable skin. Norrell’s fate does not atone for the wrongs he did her, but it is a punishment she cannot wish ended. And if Jonathan is punished too - well, Emma never cared much for him.

Arabella sits up late one night, reading and talking with Flora after Emma has gone to bed. It is almost the same as before and yet there is a shadow between them. Whatever it is, she will not bear it one moment longer.

“What is the matter, Flora?” she demands, more fiercely than she intended.

Flora is too honest to pretend not to understand her, but she does not answer. Or not in words: she blushes a deep crimson from her neck to her hairline. Arabella can’t recall seeing her blush before.

“I know there is something troubling you,” Arabella says, more kindly. “Won’t you tell me what it is?”

Flora does not look at her. This, too, is not usual. She tugs at a loose strand of fringe on her gown and twists it between her fingers. Arabella touches her hand, and she jumps as if she had been stung.

“Dearest Flora,” – _whatever has put you in such a state?_ , she would have said, but Flora forestalls her.

“Don’t,” she says tightly. “You would not say that, if you knew.”

“Whatever it is, it cannot be so very dreadful, surely,” Arabella says, bewildered. 

She cannot imagine why Flora should feel ashamed, and yet shame appears to be what she is feeling. Perhaps actions will do more than words to reassure her. Arabella puts her arms around her and embraces her gently. 

Flora hugs her back, so hard that she can scarcely breathe. No-one has hugged her like this since she parted from Jonathan in Faerie, and the thought of that makes her throat tight. Flora smells of soap and clean sweat and faintly of smoke from the fire. She is warm in Arabella’s arms, so warm it makes her slightly giddy. 

It is strange to embrace someone the same height as herself, to be breast to breast and thigh to thigh. Flora breathes quick, and presses her lips to Arabella’s cheek, a kiss too hot and clinging for innocence. What seemed mysterious is suddenly clear as day. _Oh_ , Arabella thinks. It is shocking, how much she wants this.

She puts her arms around Flora’s neck and kisses her on the mouth. Softness and heat and yielding. It’s nothing like kissing Jonathan but it makes her head swim, and when Flora moans against her mouth Arabella feels the pulse of desire between her legs. She drops one hand to the small of Flora’s back to pull her closer, pressing her thigh between Flora’s. The touch sends sparks shooting through her veins. It’s been too long.

Flora pushes back against Arabella, a pressure of heat and dampness through the thin stuff of her gown. She kisses her, clumsy and desperate, her hands trembling as she touches Arabella’s breasts. Even this awkward, unpractised touch rouses such a hunger in her that it’s as much as she can do to keep from crying out. The door isn’t locked, anyone might come in, but she can’t stop, the need for release so fierce that it burns right through her. She presses against Flora’s thigh until everything goes hot and sharp and focused, so piercingly sweet that she has to cry out, clenching helpless in the throes of pleasure. Her eyes sting with sweat; her legs won’t hold her up. She clutches at Flora so she doesn’t fall, and Flora buries her face in Arabella’s neck with a deep groan. The touch of her lips there makes Arabella whimper; the slightest pressure makes her shiver now that she has spent. 

Flora is shaking too, clutching at Arabella’s shoulders. She shudders and gasps, pushing against Arabella’s thigh in quick shallow thrusts, frantically chasing her own pleasure. When Arabella caresses the back of her thighs, her whole body goes taut and she gives a choked cry, her fingers gripping Arabella’s shoulders hard enough to bruise.

They sink down on the chaise-longue together, breathless and dazed. Flora looks so utterly astonished that Arabella doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She does neither, but kisses her warmly, a mixture of gratitude and reassurance. Flora is scarlet-faced, her skin and hair damp with sweat; Arabella must look much the same. Her gown clings to her, wet at the thighs from her arousal and Flora’s. The air is heady with it, a scent she had not thought to know again. 

She feels a pang, not of guilt but sorrow, that she should have this with someone other than Jonathan. It’s a pain that says life goes on, that she will survive the grief of Jonathan’s loss. That she will be happy again, in time. Meanwhile, there is Flora in her arms, breathing and warm and very much alive. She kisses her and brushes the tears from Flora’s cheeks. Women are supposed to cry, the first time, she knows; she remembers how she startled Jonathan by laughing afterwards in sheer delight. She will have that laughter again, with Flora or with someone else.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the journals of Anne Lister (1791-1840), commenting on the relationship between the [Ladies of Llangollen](https://wellcomecollection.org/articles/the-ladies-of-llangollen/).


End file.
